“Who’d dare rise against the Beaumonts?” Open shock. “Not only are they a power in their own right, but the angel who controls Atlanta holds them in high favor.”

“He did,” she said, turning her eyes back to him, enjoying the play of sunlight on his body. It was a simple pleasure with a potent kick—even the demons couldn’t hold up against the sensual temptation that lapped against her senses. “But seems like your buddy Antoine’s managed to piss Nazarach off.”

Janvier rose to his feet, brow furrowed. “But even so, to take on Antoine is to slit your own throat.”

“The Fox kiss doesn’t think so.”

“A kiss?” Shaking his head, he walked to stand in front of her, one hand braced on the counter. “You’re speaking in the truest sense of the word—a group of vampires banding together for a common purpose?”

“Yep.”

“I haven’t heard of a formal kiss of vampires for over a century.”

“Some guy named Callan Fox apparently decided to revive the idea.” Curious, compelled, she ran her fingers along a curving scar on Janvier’s chest, just above his left nipple. “I didn’t give you this.”

“If only,” he murmured, playing along. “I would be honored to carry your marks.”

“Too bad vampires heal so quickly.” She found herself tracing the scar, seeing something familiar in it. But unlike with every other person she knew, there was no pulse of memory, no unwanted invasion into her mind as her gift, her curse, pulled her into Janvier’s past. Instead of seeing his secrets, knowing his nightmares, all she felt was warm, silken skin, a little imperfect, and all the more intriguing for it.

“A knife,” she said. “Was this made by a knife?”

“Of a kind—a sword.” Closing his fingers over her wrist, he brought her hand to his mouth, pressing lingering kisses along the knuckles. “Will you tease me this way forever, Ashwini?”